


the scenery outside the window changes (even the season is leaving me behind)

by jaylove



Series: coming home at last [1]
Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: (kinda), Allen and Link are basically Timothy's dads, Established Relationship, M/M, Other, Somewhere, and positive/casual touch doesn't hurt him so much as it feels weird and burns a little, i hc Allen as being somewhat touch starved, rating is for a word allen uses and for implications of ~ activities ~, some introspection if you squint, there's hurt/comfort in there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 01:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16944021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaylove/pseuds/jaylove
Summary: two instances of Allen and Link watching over Timothy after a nightmare, and two instances of Link reflecting on the paths they've each walkedset somewhere before the artificial exorcists arc(otherwise: you'll rip the adoption papers they obviously signed from my cold, dead hands)





	1. i didn't say the only, single thing i wanted to

Allen's body gives a jerk, silver eyes opening just to squint blearily. He shifts, not bothering to actually move, suppressing a yawn as his hands scrub over his eyes. "Nng," the faint noise of complaint is the first to pass his lips. White hair curls out like a halo as he tilts his head back. Still glazed with sleep, he manages to meet gazes with his current pillow as his legs stretch lazily. "Don't 'member falling asleep." The boy's words - as much a question as a remark - are heavily slurred. A soundless yawn manages to escape. His face and nose scrunch with it, the long line of his scar seeming wave-like with the motion.  
  
"Of course you don't," Link's voice is more murmur than scoff, quiet in the fragile air. His book is still open upon his lap, gloves abandoned, fingers delicate upon its pages. The man's head is cocked slightly as he studies his companion. One pale finger holds his place on the page; three more are pinching its edge, prepared to flip the slim paper.  
  
Yawning once more, the boy finally pushes himself upright again, stretching absently and peering into the shadowed room.  _Hasn't he -_  
  
From the darker end, there's faint mumbling between quiet breaths. A smile flickers at the corners of Allen's lips.  
  
-  _forgotten something._  
  
"Should we take him back to his own room?" Allen inquires, gaze only flickering sideways to his companion. With his eyes adjusting to the shadows again, he can see the child asleep in the exorcist's own bed across the way, cuddling Timcanpy loosely. His legs swing over the edge of the bed - Link's, to be specific, where they'd been speaking in whispers after Timothy drifted off. He finally turns his head again when a cautious hand curls across his thigh. If either of them notice Allen's quick flinch, they choose to ignore it.   
  
The blond gives a simple shake of his head. Fingers press a little firmer against Allen's sleep pants as red eyes turn toward the child as well, a much rarer smile playing across his face. Timothy's back is to the rest of the room (something the general will eventually break the boy of) and there's little risk in the touch. Allen slides after a hesitant moment, till they both rest with their shoulders against the stone wall, close enough that their arms press together. A second or two later, Link releases Allen's thigh. They maintain their attitudes of pretend ignorance as their chilled fingers twist together. It makes for an almost strange sight, the polished ebony of Allen's left arm, against the human porcelain of Link's own skin.  
  
It's quiet enough that Allen could very nearly drift off again. His head had been sheltered on Link's hip earlier, a dangerous position to be in if Timothy were to wake again. It also goes without saying, that Link won't likely sleep tonight, and Allen would feel guilty if he were to rest. So he traces a white-nailed thumb over a curve in the inspector's hand, gaze fixed straight ahead all the while. This - the growing blossom between them - only exists as long as they refuse to speak of it, as long as they pretend it's not there. Allen often finds himself grateful for that fact. He lets his head lean against Link's shoulder, the inspector's faintly sweet scent filling his breath.  
  
"What are you reading?" He mumbles after a while, half from curiosity, half just wondering aloud. 

Link just hums a moment, flipping a page. The man shifts his shoulder to allow them both a little more comfort. " _Sense and Sensibility._ Don't laugh," he scolds the last bit as Allen barely bites back a too-loud snort, "it was  _your_ friend who insisted I read it." His eyes lift enough to reflexively check on the sleeping child. A sigh passes his lips, relaxing further as Allen's nose brushes his neck.  
  
The exorcist better resists a snicker. He tilts his head toward his watcher, allowing his eyes to fall closed, letting out a slow breath to combat the initial sting of further contact. Allen's voice is barely more than a whisper, words practically gracing the blond's skin. "I can greatly assure you," amusement curls over his twitching mouth, "Lenalee hasn't read that book. Even if she'd convincingly lie about it." Their arms shift so that the back of Link's hand rests atop Allen's thigh. A tremor goes through the younger, though Link's short tensing is the only evidence either even notice it.

"I was referring to your scientist with the window-sized glasses," Link's words are a more convincing grumble this time.  
  
Allen's nose scrunches in an expression of amusement. Another shake goes through him, this one of withheld laughter. "Johnny isn't  _mine_ , per say," the argument is weak and more habitual than anything else. (The inspector's lips, unseen, purse in an expression of disagreement.) "He only gave it to you so you'd tell him about it over chess games." The boy shifts so that his cheek presses against the edge of Link's shoulder. Silver eyes are open once more, blinking and catching the lamp-light enough to nearly glow. "I think he really likes having you around to play with him. He was so dejected after Suman - " Allen cuts himself off sharply. Possessively, or perhaps protectively, Link's grip on Allen's hand - on Allen's  _Innocence -_ tightens carefully. He clears his throat, twisting his head enough to breathe in his companion's comforting scent again. Grounding.

"I only play so you'll stay put and behave a while," Link counters after Allen's breath doesn't seem to stick anymore. He's hesitant as he adds, "don't tell him that." Allen gives a scoff - of disbelief or humor, either one.  
  
"Do you think he's gonna be okay?" Allen suddenly changes topic, silver eyes focused across the room. Link stills, head lifting, gaze locking on Timothy as well. The child sleeps on, unaware of the new conversation. "He's just a kid ... " The exorcist trails off, shaking his own head now. His words seem almost disbelieving, but his pained expression declares how easily he understands this. There's something faraway in his gaze. It often does this in regards to Timothy, as Allen's thoughts drift to a boy with red hair and a clown that couldn't cry. Or to more recent times, somehow appearing more painful, to a slippery general who could be soft and cold in the same breath.   
  
(Link's eyes shift down, tracing a hardly visible line across Allen's human arm, the scar a reminder of a long-ago story. The inspector had heard it after General Cross disappeared again. Once numbness had returned to the white-haired boy, eyes clouded while recounting stitches and murmured praises.)

Link considers his answer for several moments, noting his page number and letting the book at last fall closed. "We were." Taking a chance, he tilts his head so he can look properly at Allen. It hits him almost immediately how stupidly incorrect the reassurance is - and how damningly open. The fact they even know one another is proof at least one of them is not. Allen has a Noah warring mutely for control; Link has secretly fallen so far from grace, jokes can't even be made about it anymore. They each became child soldiers at nearly the same age. Every day seems to be spent hiding it, disguising how absolutely  _not okay_  they truly are, unable to rest their walls enough to even be honest with the other. Link cannot deny the fact they've been intimate (in multiple senses) without actually showing their true faces, before.   
  
(Can they really pretend to know each other? Have they ever earnestly, honestly,  _truly_ met?)  
  
There's no bad reaction to the slip, just a low hum after a long pause of silence. It's possible Allen didn't even hear the comment.  
  
Link brushes the fingertips of his free hand along Allen's purple scar (wasn't it red, when they first met?) before returning to his book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no offense intended to Jane Austen intended here
> 
> Johnny quite probably just doesn't have the time to read it, and is trying to get the sparknotes version from Link


	2. "don't leave me"

Allen accepts the tea both tiredly and gratefully. It's balanced on his knee, black arm stretched almost awkwardly to keep a light hold on the object. The human hand is still clutched with nigh bruising force by two smaller ones. His gaze fixes back on the sleeping child immediately, worry so clear on his face it might scare those who claim to know him well. The exorcist isn't known for an open nature. It must be dreadfully cold on the stone floor; the wooden bedframe must be digging into constantly bruised ribs; his legs must be stiff, having been tucked at an obviously uncomfortable angle beneath him for ages. But he still doesn't even actually shift, either oblivious to any discomfort or hiding it extremely well.  
  
Link barely allows the bed to dip as he perches on its edge. Timothy's face is still slightly wet with tears, even as the child breathes in deep sleep. The man studies the sleeping boy a moment or two before forcing his gaze away again. "We really ought to just wake Miss Galmar whenever this happens." His words come out uncharacteristically mumbled; he has to admit he's absolutely exhausted. There's a cut across his right shoulder blade that's still bandaged beneath his shirt. It aches faintly, mostly only able to do little more than stiffen his movements. The heaviness of his eyelids makes it hard to keep his eyes open in the first place. There should be a law against anyone being awake at an hour such as this, if they have no work to be doing.   
  
(Which, arguably - Link's charge is up and here, so Link must be as well, so he  _is_ working. The thought makes him even more tired.)  
  
"We were the ones who heard him," Allen's voice is comparable to a rush of wind sweeping over a cliff-face; clear and certain, yet so carefully hushed and controlled, almost melodic. (The inspector blinks forcefully a few times. Far too little sleep.) It's not quite a scold as much as it is absentminded response, reflexive. The blond man is commanding almost none of the exorcist's attention.  
  
Still, he can't help a scoff, playing with the lip of his own teacup. An effort to keep away any risk of falling asleep. (Right then, he could not possibly remember if the method existed before, or if it was picked up from Allen, the white-haired boy's nearly infamous fidgeting rubbing off on the "shadow.") "He  _is_  her charge, Allen. Not ours. It's supposed to be her responsibility - " his voice, gruff from his limited sleep, pauses as Timothy shifts and mumbles, only continuing when it's clear the boy will not wake, " - to look after him." The logic is sound and fair. Emilia would be just as capable of comforting the child after a nightmare, if not more so.  _And besides_ , Link only adds the words in his own head, though he stares at Allen hard in an effort to silently communicate them,  _we have no believable excuse for why we were there to hear it at all.  
  
_(They'd woken up to realize they had, in the rushed and aggravated fumbling of earlier that evening, reopened one of Allen's wounds. Though Link had intended to fix it himself, Allen swept through the process too quickly for the inspector to even fully register the movements. That was the explainable part. Something they could easily make excuses about - something that had genuinely happened in Allen's sleep before. What was more  _complicated_  was the fact they'd been walking back slowly, hands brushing, and with the hallways black as night, Allen had given him that soft and open smile, which was maybe proof enough of how much more exhausted the exorcist was. Link had kissed him without thinking. They had leaned against the wall for a long while after that, not realizing they were directly beside Timothy's door, foreheads pressed together and barely aware of the world. Allen had heard it first, a muffled cry that they'd struggled to try and identify. Then Timothy's voice, too quiet to be heard by even someone passing by, calling out for  _anyone_ in the night. The rest was standard.)  
  
The blond's words register more this time. Allen fixes him with a dark look, enough to make Link start a little in surprise of the younger's aggravation. Certainly, the exorcist had been balancing on the precipice of a foul mood at least half the day. But it had been sated, and Allen had seemed calmer again, and Link hadn't expected it to be so easily triggered, so soon after. "He doesn't go to her when he has a nightmare," the exorcist levels the words with that same forced care.  
  
"That's because  _you_ encourage him to come to us," Link's traitorous mouth fires back, almost immediately.  
  
"Howard," scarily calm and level, yet there's a warning hidden in the singular word.  
  
The inspector can't help but bristle at the use of his first name. It's a rare practice, usually just reserved for something muffled between sheets, or reverent against exposed skin. He is  _tired_ \- they both are, but his patience starts to falter in that moment. "The boy is asleep now, in any case," Link's words come through gritted teeth, still coherent enough to try and avoid a full-fledged fight, yet unable to hide the snap in his voice.

"I'm staying," Allen turns a little softer again, eyes half-lidded as they shift back to the little face, "but feel free to go any time you'd like." The tea is all but forgotten. Careful, so very, ridiculously, self-consciously,  _frustratingly_   _careful,_ the black hand of Innocence reaches up, a few knuckles brushing softly, fondly over Timothy's cheek. It's not quite a smile that passes briefly onto Allen's lovely face. ( _God Almighty,_ Link is well past the point of legal exhaustion,  _surely._ ) But it's something close, a bittersweet gentleness and warmth and grace and -  
  
Link is on his feet fast enough to make his head spin. "I  _can't_  though," he openly spits his words this time, barely monitoring his volume, "and we both know that, Walker." The name slips out unbidden, and he faintly figures he'll regret using it. The reminder of Mana, the uncertainty of the past, desperate grips to an identity - Allen had too many reasons to name for hating being called anything but  _Allen_ , when possible.  
  
Something dark curls across Allen's face. It seems to twist the lines of the boy's distinctive scar, turning the light indigo into the color of ink. Link would almost swear sometimes it seems as though the scar itself distorts, becoming a mess of curls and breaks and smudges. "Yes, how could I forget?" There's still nothing heated to the boy's tone. Not even distinctly cold. Just a touch of mocking, each rising word clipped and so unbearably contained. Allen shifts a little to face him better, human hand curling in Timothy's, and the protectiveness of the gesture makes Link's stomach twist angrily. "You can only leave my side when Lvellie whistles for his bitch again." The uttering is like a smack in the face for the inspector. He can feel himself drawing up, icy fury sliding down his spine. It's almost a shock to hear Allen murmur such a foul word so casually.  
  
"You have no right," the blond's voice is low and rough with suppressed anger. He shifts closer a step, thinks better of it, then shifts back. "And your coddling of the child is useless. It's simply another example of your insistent need to make yourself into a  _hero._ "  
  
"Do you want him to turn out like us?"   
  
Link recoils so hard he actually stumbles. It feels like another slap, but of a different nature than before. Allen doesn't look at him now, gaze fixed and unreadable on Timothy. The fight starts to drain from the inspector, and he wonders, faintly, how he let it veer out of control in the first place. "I - " He starts, his voice wavering.  
  
"Look at us. Who the Hell do we go to when we have a nightmare?" Allen interrupts before Link can continue, frowning as his free hand clenches into a fist. "Let's not pretend you don't make a report every time I have one," without turning his head, silver eyes flick to Link, accusing. The blond can't help a guilty flinch. Of course, Allen is completely right, and they both know it. "Do you think I don't notice yours as well? What, at least once a week? Usually more?" Link's jaw sets uncomfortably. "We literally have someone just across the room - "  _often in the same bed_  is between the lines, "who's almost always awake with us, and we just - " he sucks in a breath, one that seems on the border of pain. His eyes are blown impossibly wide. The silver is glazed over; they're dark and heavy underneath. His voice is scarcely more than just an exhale. "We won't even look at each other. Talking about it, is just - I don't think we could if we tried." The exorcist shudders, free hand reaching now so its fingers can curl through Timothy's teal hair, brushing it methodically back. "I don't want him to turn out like that." Allen's chin is nearly on the bed's edge. He looks so broken and scared in that moment, as if simply moments away from tears. All the anger from before seems stupid now.  
  
(And Link wonders who it comes from - is it a product of Cross? Of Mana? Or is it something inherently Allen, never quite bred out of his poor, sweet, cursed exorcist?)  
  
The man makes a decision in the next few heartbeats. He bends, slides along the floor till he can shift behind his charge, hesitating only when Allen tenses at the initial contact. But the exorcist forcefully relaxes again, and the inspector moves till his back is braced against the wall and he can stretch a leg to either side of Allen. The younger leans back into him; left hand falling lax close to Link's knee, right hand remaining on the bed. Link isn't sure if Timothy even still has to grip it anymore. "We'll stay here a while longer," he promises, lips pressed to the spot just behind Allen's ear, chaste. "But we do need to go back to bed at some point." His arms wrap carefully around the other's thinner frame. Touching as little as possible, while still trying to provide comfort. A sense of security.  
  
( _I can't make you feel safe, I can't make it stop hurting, I can't even touch you without some pain, I can't ever hold you like this where someone might see us, but, by God, I'm going to do everything in my power to help you, to protect you, always, I swear it._ ) 

"He'll be embarrassed if he wakes up and we're still here," Allen muses the words, voice showing how tired he is, but the stroking of his thumb against a small hand makes it clear he's still very much conscious.  
  
Link just nods, pressing his face into Allen's hair, all the while praying for  _any_ happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (it's my personal opinion that, when they actually fight, it's messy, and usually consists of at least one skirting around what they really mean until it's too much to bottle in anymore)
> 
> all the titles are taken from the ending song regret, which is my favorite, and i just used the wiki entry for translation

**Author's Note:**

> no offense intended to Jane Austen intended here
> 
> Johnny quite probably just doesn't have the time to read it, and is trying to get the sparknotes version from Link


End file.
